


The Power of Leaving

by JanecShannon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Johnlock, Faked Suicide, Gen, Ignores S3, Post Reichenbach, Reichenfeels, Selkie!Harry, Selkie!John, Sibling Bonding, it's gonna hurt before it gets better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanecShannon/pseuds/JanecShannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's mother was a selkie and he's spent thirty-some odd years resisting the Call of the ocean. With Sherlock dead, he decides that maybe it's time to answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from S.J. Tucker's song _Seafaring Satyr_ which, admittedly, if you haven't listened to it than you probably won't see how it's related to Selkies. This isn't a fawn!lock fic. Sherlock isn't a satyr, I just really like that song and thought the title fit.

**_“Clara, it’s me... Harry. Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want to be hearing from right now and you don’t have to listen to this message but please don’t delete it. I’m not fool enough to think anyone’s going to even notice I’m gone... But Johnny... Johnny has people who’ll miss him. Who’ll come looking for him...”_ **

.oO*Oo.

“Are you sure you wanna do this, Johnny?” Harry asks. “It’s never the same afterward, you know.” 

But her Johnny is too far gone in his grief to care. “You don’t have to come with me,” is all he answers in a flat, detached voice that worries her more than she cares to admit. She thinks he is making a mistake, one he’ll regret later (when it will be too late to come back from it) but she shakes her head. Johnny was the only reason she’d stayed anyway. 

Both siblings, standing on the cold northern beach, begin to strip. 

.oO*Oo.

When Clara gets the message, she doesn’t really think about it. She knows what John has been through, what he’s lost, and (she figures) it’s about goddamn time Harry was there for someone. She assumes they’re taking a trip, doing a bit of traveling, and Harry doesn’t want to let him go alone. 

_It’s a last minute decision_ , she assumes, _that’s why people will come looking._

So she saves the message on her machine and doesn’t give it another thought until a worn looking Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard knocks on her door. He looks like he’s at his wit's end. 

When he tells her he’s looking for John Watson, his tone is more telling than the words. 

When he finds him, _if_ he finds him, he’s expecting to find a body.

.oO*Oo.

**_“He needs to go away for awhile. Get out of London...and, well, I can’t let him go alone. I’m not sure when, or even if, we’ll be back. But I think Johnny’s worried someone might try to stop him, so he doesn’t want to actually tell anyone before we go.”_ **

.oO*Oo.

The water is brutally cold but the siblings, bare as the day they were born, continue to walk until the chilly water reaches their waists. They both stop. A strong undercurrent flows just a mere foot away from them. It drags and swirls the water and the strong, silky skins they each hold in one hand. 

One more step and they will be past the point of no return. 

“What’s it like?” he asks quietly. Awed and terrified by the decision he has made. 

“Freeing,” she whispers. 

They step into the current and are pulled out to sea. 

.oO*Oo.

They find the abandoned car by the beach near the Farne Islands. It’s basically empty, containing only the clothes the siblings were last seen in with their wallets, keys, and her purse. All signs point to them driving six hours, stripping themselves naked, then either disappearing into thin air or (worse) the frigid waters of Bundle Bay. 

John, they understand. It’s sad, a tragedy, but they can’t say they didn’t see it coming. Harry’s presence baffles them. The siblings hated each other, couldn’t stand each other, but certainly Harry would have made an effort to stop her brother from killing himself? Surely she would have put up some kind of protest, called one of the friends she knows he has, done _something_. 

But no. As far as they can tell, Harry decided to join him instead. 

.oO*Oo.

**_"Don't worry about us, Clara. Where we're going, it'll be better."_ **


	2. Chapter 1

Mycroft watches his lover pace the floor in front of the fire. It had been a trying few weeks for all of them but it seems the answers they found simply left them with more questions rather than any sort of closure.

"Do sit down, Gregory," Mycroft tells the detective, patting the seat next to him, but the other man just continues to pace. 

“It’s the sister that gets me,” he mutters. “Why didn’t she _stop_ him?”

Mycroft hears the unspoken self-recrimination. _Why didn’t **I** stop him? Why didn’t I **see**?_ The elder Holmes sighs. “You couldn’t have known. _I_ didn’t know, how could you have?”

But the fact of the matter is he _had_ known, or at least suspected, something like this would happen. Not the way it had, no. He (well, his people to be more accurate) had been watching for a gun, a bottle of pills, a sudden leap off the roof of St. Barts. He had thought John’s sister was taking him to the countryside to escape the memories of London. 

Mycroft has made a terrible misjudgement but his brother has been the one to pay the price for it. 

Mycroft dreads telling him, his reaction is bound to be so dramatic.

.oO*Oo.

There is no body to bury, there rarely is with these sorts of suicides, but they hold a small service for John on a dreary Tuesday. Mycroft purchased the spot located next to the one Sherlock is supposedly buried in the moment they found the car on that abandoned beach but they have had to wait the required time to declare John dead.

Mrs. Hudson cries and makes rather a lot of noise considering she’s had nearly a year to know this was coming. She mutters several times about how _At least they’re together again now_ and Mycroft really doesn’t see the need for the repetition. It makes the annoying crying stop for several minutes each time she says it though so he opts to say nothing. 

Gregory is there as well, of course (Mycroft would likely not have bothered coming were it not for his lovers insistence). He looks every bit as tense and tired as Mycroft knows he is. Surveillance has reported he’s been up late most nights, pouring over the Watson casefile. Often falling asleep at his desk while reading and re-reading the everything that could possibly provide some answers. He insists that the sister presence is significant. 

Mycroft wishes the detective would stop deluding himself with this false hope. 

Harriet Watson hadn’t been stable since her late teens.

.oO*Oo.

It’s a lesson all coppers learn early the in game: don’t get too attached to a case. It was probably impossible for Lestrade not to get attached to this one, Sally knows that. She knows that he had already blamed himself for the swan dive that the Freak took off the roof and Watson’s disappearance only adds to that. 

Still, done is done and buried is buried. It may not be interfering with his work (yet) but she can tell by the rings under his eyes and the files (he thinks she doesn’t know about) in his briefcase that he’s developed an unhealthy obsession with solving this case. 

.oO*Oo.

Molly comes home one night to find a man sitting on her loveseat. She’s just about to scream when he darts forward to cover her mouth and hisses, “It’s me, Molly.”

She relaxes when she finally places the voice. “Sherlock?” she asks, but his hand is still covering her mouth so it comes out sounding more like _Huurrlook_.

“Yes,” he answers, then adds, “If I take my hand off are you still going to scream?”

She shakes her head and he retreats. “Oh god, Sherlock, I’m so-”

“I’m going to need your help again, Molly. I’ve got one last thread of Moriarty’s web to hunt down but I’m concerned he is probably going after John directly. Unfortunately, he doesn’t appear to live at Baker Street anymore and since I can’t run the risk of approaching any of my homeless network, I’m afraid I’m just going to have to get you to do it for me,” he paces while he speaks in that rapid-fire way of his, pausing only to add, “Unless you know where he is now. Do you?”

He doesn’t know, Molly realizes, and her first thought is of how it’s not fair that she has to be the one to tell him. That thought lasts only a second though before it finally sets in that she _has to tell him_ and she bursts into tears.

.oO*Oo.

_It is as freeing as Harry described._


	3. Chapter 2

Molly is still crying when she forces Sherlock into a chair. He does as she says because he doesn’t know what else to do and is hoping that if he does as she says she’ll stop crying so he’ll actually be able to understand the words that are coming out of her mouth. 

“Jo... Oh Sherlock, John.... He...”

“John. Yes _John Watson_ , Molly. That’s is precisely who I’m asking about,” he snaps. Her reaction has worried him, he can feel the twisting fear in his gut of what’s she’s about to tell him happened to John, but it is so much simpler to let it evolve into anger. “If you’d _kindly_ finish a sentence.” 

“We waited as long as we could. People do funny things when they’re grieving. We did wait. We did. And we looked. But we just-”

“Molly!” Sherlock grabs her upper arms and stares at her intently. 

“He’s dead!” she blurts in a rushed squeak. “He died. He killed himself.”

She gasps and suddenly looks horrified with herself but it barely registers for him. A strangled keening noise escapes his throat and his world is listing to the side but her gentle hands guide him back to the loveseat.

.oO*Oo.

In an appalling way, it’s oddly fascinating to watch Sherlock rebuild himself before her very eyes after seeing his world crumble. Molly knows she should have found a better way to break the news than simply blurting it out like she did. But she got nervous and when she gets nervous her brain-mouth filter does some strange things (like not working all together).

She finally opts to give him his privacy on the excuse of making coffee. She takes her time about it, using her french press to make the fancy coffee she got as a birthday present several months before instead of the usual instant coffee she usually drinks. 

His eyes are a bit red when she comes back but his expression is otherwise blank so she doesn’t say anything about it. 

“How long ago?” he finally asks in a gravelly, defeated voice. 

“Um, about nine months after you...” she finishes with a _you know_ face. 

“So a year ago, then,” his eyes slide closed but his face remains eerily impassive.

“Almost, yes.”

“Did he leave a note?” Sherlock’s voice catches on the last word, and he closes his eyes as though pained, she can’t help but wonder why that is the word that seems to make things worse. 

“No. His sister left a message on her ex’s machine but John didn’t want to give anyone the chance to stop him, I think.”

“His sister?” Sherlock’s eyes shoot open and his brow furrows. “What does Harry have to do with it?”

“They, um... together,” Molly explains. She winces as the intensity of his gaze increases at her words. His head tilts to the side dangerously and his eyes take on a predatory sheen. 

“Molly...” he starts, suddenly thoughtful rather than grieving. “You said ‘We _looked_ ’. What did you mean?”

“The way they did it. They just... they just let the tide take them. We didn’t have... bodies to bury. We did wait for them to come back, no one actually _saw_ them get into the water, you know, but.... Well...” she trails off sadly. 

“You fools,” he breathes. Her eyes dart up to his. He’s got that look on his face that he usually gets when he can’t believe the utter stupidity of those around him. “He’s not dead. He didn’t kill himself. Don’t you see?”

“Sherlock-” her voice is sad, pitying because _this_ is denial. 

“No,” he laughs, just a little hysterically, “I was off hunting down Moran and he was _here_. He’s taken John and convinced you all he killed himself so you wouldn’t go looking for him. I need to see the case file. Clearly there’s something you all missed.”

He’s already stormed out the door before she has a chance to argue with him. She tries to chase him anyway, but by the time she’s made it out onto the street he’s gone. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she whispers sadly and goes back to her flat. 

.oO*Oo.

**New Text Message  
** From: Gregory Lestrade  
 _Get your bloody arse to my flat now, Mycroft. You have some explaining to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, I'm not as pleased with this chapter as I could be. I'm not sure if I've got Molly and Sherlock's personalities 100% right. But I don't have a beta and I've been sitting on this for a week and can't think of how else to have them react. I couldn't leave you waiting any more or else I ran the risk of just _never_ getting back to it.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the fantastic [maps-with-stars](http://maps-with-stars.tumblr.com), any of the mistakes left in the story are my own.

Greg settles in for a relaxing evening. Sally has been trying to get him to stop obsessing over the Watson case and her hints have been getting less and less subtle as the months drag on. He’s starting to realize that maybe she might be just a little bit right. He’s left the casefile locked in the top drawer of his desk at work and promised not to go back for it until at least Monday. 

He already knows beer isn’t going to do it tonight so he pours himself two fingers of that (rather pricey) whiskey Mycroft bought him for their last anniversary and downs it before pouring himself another. 

He’s already considering going back to pick up the file even though he doesn’t need it. He can recite the entire thing from memory by now, there’s just nothing to more to find. It’s times like this that he misses Sherlock more than anything. Mad though the man may have been, there was no denying he was brilliant. He would have taken one look at this case and pointed out a dozen things that would they all missed with their _vacant little minds_. He would have blown the case wide open in a matter of days, if not minutes. 

Of course.... If Sherlock had been around to solve the case there would be no case for him to solve. John would never have.... done what he’d done.... if Sherlock was still with them. Lestrade takes a sip of the whiskey in his glass. 

(He _wants_ to get drunk, oh does he want to, but he has promised both Mycroft and Sally that he will try to stop letting this case get to him. Getting drunk is probably the opposite of that.)

It’s the sister that still baffles him. Harriet hadn’t planned on ever coming back, she’d made certain preparations that made that perfectly clear, but for John it seemed to be a spur of the moment thing. Harry had sold, donated, or thrown out practically everything she owned. She’d given her thirty days’ notice to her landlord and paid ahead for the rent. John hadn’t even canceled the lunch plans he’d had with a work colleague on the day he went missing. 

And why had they done it the way they had? Why walk out to the ocean? When they’d searched 221B, they’d found an entire bottle of sleeping pills John had been prescribed by his therapist. Why hadn’t he taken those? 

He can’t help himself this time; he gulps down the burning liquid one more time and pauses when he goes to refill his glass. One more, he decides, and that’s it. Three’s plenty.

He’d never really figured John to be the walking-out-into-the-ocean type. It must have been the sister’s idea. She had to have convinced John to go through with it. He curses Harriet Watson. He curses her cold, dead, rotting body and hopes that the fish that feast on her flesh choke and die from the vile poison in her veins. 

Her actions have taken a brilliant, if hurting, man from them before his time and, “What kind of sister _does_ that?!” he demands to his empty flat. The flat taunts him with its silence. 

He downs what’s left in his glass and lifts his arm to throw the glass at the wall (he wants to break something and throwing it will have the twofold benefit of destroying the glass and the pervading silence) but three sharp knocks stop him. He turns to glare at the door. 

“No,” he tells it conversationally, “Go away.” 

He contemplates pouring himself another; four isn’t so much more than three and he’s barely on the drunk side of tipsy. What could one more hurt? But whoever is at the door knocks again and stops him. Greg huffs angrily and gets to feet. 

“I said, ‘Go aw-’,” he freezes when he recognizes the man standing at his door. His eyes go a bit squinty and he decided that no, three is apparently way more than enough. Clearly he’s _far_ drunker than he thought. 

“I agree, you’ve had definitely more than enough, Lestrade,” the dead man tells him. Greg just blinks as the other man shoves past him. “Where is the file? I need it.”

By the time he’s come back to himself enough to close the door and follow Sherlock to the main room, the brunette has dialed in the code on his briefcase and is flipping through the files. Greg just sort of stands in the doorway, dazed beyond words. 

“The file, Lestrade!” Sherlock snaps his fingers an inch from Greg’s nose. “You’re not usually this drunk after three glasses. What is wrong with you?”

“Sorry, I just.... I’m trying to figure out if I’ve been transported back in time or just had a very bad, very long, and very detailed nightmare.” 

.oO*Oo.

Sherlock peers at Lestrade for a moment then shakes his head. Clearly the other man is going to be absolutely no help at all. He tears the flat apart to find the file but it’s nowhere to be found. While he’s been searching, Lestrade had put the bottle of whiskey away and made what smells like very strong coffee (though what the detective usually drinks is typically more reminiscent of sludge than actual coffee). 

Sherlock leaves him be until the dazed look has faded a bit. 

“Sherlock,” he finally speaks, “You aren’t dead.”

“Hmmm. No,” agrees the detective. He’s studying the walls and considering the likelihood of a hidden compartment. It’s doubtful but he knows Lestrade will have the file on hand and he’s searched everywhere else. 

“Sherlock,” the DI starts carefully, “John-”

“Isn’t dead,” Sherlock finishes. Lestrade is silent and Sherlock turns to look at him only to be disgusted by the pure pity he sees there. “Don’t _any_ of you _see_? Clearly Moran, the last one of Moriarty’s minions, his right hand man, in fact, has captured John and made it look like suicide to fool you all.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lestrade tries to ease gently but Sherlock will have none of it.

“Of course it makes sense. It’s the only thing that makes sense!” he snaps. 

“Even if you’re right-”

“Of course I’m right,” Sherlock mutters. 

“No, Sherlock, listen to me,” Greg insists, grabbing the sleuth’s upper arm. He forces the younger man to face him. “If you’re right then this man of Moriarty’s has had John for a year,” he speaks slowly, watching the play of emotions across Sherlock’s face. He tries to ease the blow as best he can but knows this will be devastating no matter what he does. “Do you really suppose he’s still alive? And even if he is, have you considered what state he could be in?”

 

“Well that’s...” Sherlock trails off, blinking rapidly. No, that hadn’t really occurred to him but it’s not like he’s going to admit that. “Obviously.... If Moran knew enough to think that taking John would be effective.... He’d... He’d clearly be aware that I’ve been out of contact with Mycroft for the last year.” Sherlock nods decisively. This is clearly what’s happened. 

But it’s not. 

And he knows it’s not. 

His eyes flutter closed of their own volition and he barely registers the feel of hands on his biceps. They grip him tightly and he is aware of Lestrade saying his name, trying to draw his attention back outside his own head, but he needs to sort this out in his own mind before he can deal with the rest of the world.

.oO*Oo.

“Sherlock!” Greg says a final time and give the younger man a small shake but gets no response. He sighs and lets his hands drop to his side before lifting them to run them through his hair. He leaves them on the back of his head for a moment, tugging the short strands. Greg turns and walks several paces away before he pauses as Sherlock’s last sentence finally registers with him. 

“Wait a minute. This last _year_?” Greg demands as he turns back to face the younger man even though he knows Sherlock isn’t listening to him. “Implying you’ve had contact with him before then? Meaning he knew? Oh, I’m going to kill him,” Greg mutters under his breath as he pulls out his phone to text Mycroft and demand that he join them.

This is a Danger Night if he’s ever seen one and Greg knows he’s going to need all the help he can get when Sherlock eventually comes back outside of his head. Sherlock is the slippery sort when he wants to be.

“I’m going to bloody kill him,” he repeats, “but not until I get some damn answers as to what the hell is going on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was not meant to focus so heavily on Greg. When initially planning where this chapter was going to go, it was supposed to be a few paragraphs of Greg and then more of Sherlock figuring out what's actually going on with a bit of Mycroft showing up and contributing what he knows. 
> 
> But Greg kinda hijacked the chapter so you got lots of angst and Mycroft got pushed off a chapter or two.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, you guys. I know it's been like six months since I published a chapter. I don't really have an excuse besides that I had six months where I really didn't accomplish much of anything. This kinda thing happens occasionally. I apologize wholeheartedly. 
> 
> I'm kicking my own ass into gear now though and I'm working hard to get you another chapter soon so you don't have to wait another half year for an update.

**New Text Message  
From: Gregory Lestrade**   
_Get your bloody arse to my flat now, Mycroft. You have some explaining to do._

Mycroft clicks his tongue disapprovingly when he reads the message his lover has sent him. 

_I am busy, Gregory. I will see you in the morning. - Mycroft_

**New Text Message  
From: Gregory Lestrade**   
_Nope. Don’t care. You’ll come now._

Mycroft blinks at the almost instantaneous response. He finds himself almost hesitant in his answer; he does care for the detective, insomuch as he is able, and finds that he has no wish to cause him undue distress... But he had explained at the beginning of this relationship that there would be times that his job would have to take precedence. This is the first time true contention has arisen from the time conflict. 

_It is quite impossible for me to leave at this moment. I will see you in the morning, as was previously arranged. - Mycroft_

**New Text Message  
From: Gregory Lestrade**   
_I’m not sure I can forgive you for this, Mycroft, but I’m willing to hear you out. If you aren’t here in 10 min you won’t even get that._

Mycroft blinks at the answer, trying to figure out what he could possibly have done that would have Gregory so incensed. He’s already risen to his feet and begun to collect his coat by the time his assistant comes in. 

“I’ve had something of a personal emergency come up,” he tells her. She gives him a surprised look, though he can understand the reason for her shock. He hasn’t had a personal emergency since Sherlock’s supposed death. 

“Is that wise, sir? The Russians-”

“Will simply have to make do with you. You know all the paperwork as well I do and you are fully briefed in which areas we’re willing to bend.”

“If you say so, sir,” she answers doubtfully.

_I’m unsure as to what I’ve done that has you so upset but you are aware that my office is at least fifteen minutes from your flat? - Mycroft_

**New Text Message  
From: Gregory Lestrade**   
_There’s no traffic this time of night. 9 min_

Mycroft tells his driver to hurry. 

.oO*Oo.

Grey sits on a chair at his kitchen table and watches the dead-not-dead detective standing catatonic in his living room. He can see the clock on the oven in his peripheral vision and, though he has received no outright acknowledgement that Mycroft is coming, he keeps an eye on the time. 

There is nothing left to do but wait. Wait for Sherlock to come back to himself. Wait for Mycroft to arrive. So Greg sits at his table and feels betrayed. 

Not so much by Sherlock... Well, ok, a little by Sherlock but after the fact he can look back and see how it would be something he would do. It's not a conclusion Greg would ever have jumped to on his own but now, after the fact with proof of the deception before him, he can see that it's something he would never have put past the younger man. 

But Mycroft. 

Mycroft was supposed to trust him. Not with everything, no, Greg is perfectly aware that there are things Mycroft can't say about his job. But this was personal. This day the death of the man Greg had come to see as a son (or perhaps baby brother would be a better description... Greg isn't that much older than Sherlock). And Greg hates that Mycroft had allowed him to stew in his grief and self-recrimination. 

(And he can't help but lay of blame of John's suicide at the feet of Mycroft's silence. It's possible that a one word, one tiny hint, would have been enough to give the doctor enough hope to pull through.)

Perhaps it is unfair to hold Mycroft to a higher standard. To blame him when Sherlock (who was the one to actually step of the building) gets off relatively unscathed. 

Perhaps it is unfair, but Greg is not feeling very generous. 

(And Sherlock has come home to a world with no John Watson, so maybe he isn't getting away quite so unscathed after all.)

.oO*Oo.

_They were young, so young, when they first felt the Call. Harry (still Harriet then) was barely six when Moira came in to find her packing random odds and ends for herself and John. Two year old John was shuffling around behind her, one arm dragging his plaid blankey and the other sucking his thumb determinedly._

_Moira’s spare purse had been packed with random objects only children would find necessary to pack._

_“What are you up to, Harriet?” Moira asked with an amused smile. John helpfully added his peg toy to the bag, looking at his sister for approval who then patted him on the head with pride. He gave her wet smile from behind his thumb._

_"Me and John are going," she told her mother without even looking up from where she was sorting through her dress up clothes._

_"Going where?" Moira asked but Harriet just shrugged._

_It should have been adorable. It should have just been an innocent child who had heard about some place they wanted to go and has decided to go there._

_It should have been but something in the back of Moira's mind hears what her daughter is not saying._

_"Harriet," she begins slowly._

_"It's time to go, Ma," Harriet interrupts, finally looking at her. "Are you coming too?"_

_Moira's heart breaks._


	6. Chapter 5

Mycroft would never be so undignified as to run up the stairs to Gregory’s flat but there is certainly a tad (just a hint) more speed in his steps than usual. He uses his key to let himself in and pauses for a moment in the doorway. 

“Ah,” he says as he sees his brother standing in the middle of the room. “I can see why you might react with a bit of anger to this situation.”

“This situation?” Gregory repeats quietly. Mycroft compares his tone and... Ah, the detective is appalled. Gregory had used the same tone of voice six months previous when a young boy had been murdered walking home from school after his mother decided her hair appointment was more important than picking him up. “What situation would that be Mycroft? The one where your brother didn’t really commit suicide or the one where he comes home to find his... John killed himself. Or was that fake too? _Please_ , tell me that was fake too.”

Greg hopes, despite the additional betrayal it would mean, that John's death was faked too. It still doesn't answer all his questions. It still doesn't explain the sister. If John was in hiding, he wouldn't have taken Harriet for company (they'd have fought incessantly with each other) but it would certainly be a happier outcome for all involved for the answer to that question to be _yes, it was faked_. 

It’s not the answer, and Greg feels his anger ignite again as his hope fades. But, like flash paper, it burns hot and fast then dissipates and leaves him with nothing but his own exhaustion. “Any other big secrets you’ve been keeping from me?"

Mycroft pulled out his phone and sent a short text to his assistant. "There are many things I cannot tell you, Gregory.” By the look on the detective’s face, the line (though accurate) is the final nail in a coffin Mycroft had been building himself for a very long time. 

“Yeah,” Gregory breathes with a nod of his head. Mycroft dislikes the expression on his face: the way he looks up towards the ceiling to fight off the tears that make his eyes shine, the way the corners of his mouth turn down and his lips compress to hide the slight tremble. 

They sit in silence until his assistant arrives with the files he requested. 

(Sherlock’s file for Gregory and the Watsons’ file for Sherlock)

.oO*Oo.  
 _  
It is a low whisper that echos in her ears._

_She wants to answer it, she doesn’t want to answer it without her children, she can’t answer without her Skin. But it’s there. Always, always, always there. Her skin is too dry and no shower or bath can wet it. The salt water from the ocean crusts salt her hair but it barely helps. John, still a boy, still a child, plants kisses on the scratch marks that cover her skin. He doesn’t understand, “Kisses make it better, Mummy.”_

_But it doesn’t. It **doesn’t**. _

_Hamish moves them to London. He tells her it will help to distance herself from the ocean. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about but she lets him believe. His eyes are so sad when they look at her lately and she loves him. But she also **hates** him. He knows what would help, what she needs, but he keeps it from her. _

_She lets him believe that moving will help and then she goes through every single box for the Skin she needs to return to the ocean._

_She doesn’t find it._

_London doesn’t help.  
_  
.oO*Oo.

Sherlock has thought it through very carefully. He has gone through every scenario he can think of and calculated the odds of John’s survival at the hands of Moran. They are not good. Less than ten percent. 

Alive and sane (or in a recoverable state) is less than one percent. 

For just the briefest, barest moment, he wonders if he really wants to know. Does he want confirmation that John is dead or worse? Does he really want to see the mangle corpse John has likely become? Can he survive that image haunting him or would it be better to let John live as the affable, _living_ being Sherlock remember?

Yes, he decides, he has to know. 

Even if he won’t survive the knowledge that comes with it (and he hates himself for even considering it). 

How to get the information he needs to track down Moran is the question he must carefully consider. He will not ask his brother for it. His brother has failed him by allowing this to happen thus any information acquired from him must be deemed unreliable (or at least partial). 

(That doesn’t mean he won’t take it if it’s freely offered, if only to give himself something to work from to build his own information, but Mycroft’s information is never _free_.)

(He has already paid dearly for it.)


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! And neither is this fic apparently. Inspiration struck so I've come crawling out of my cave for a bit. 
> 
> Thank you to [seramarias](http://seramarias.tumblr.com) for betaing! :) Can't have been fun, I wrote this on my phone. Any mistakes are mine.

It doesn't take a genius (though Sherlock is one) to realize the most reliable way to catch Moran is to let the hunter catch his prey. Or at least to let him think he has. 

Sherlock pays his homeless network for any information on John or Moran. At best, any leads they find will be valid and will point him to the two men he seeks. At worst, the leads will be planted information which will be a lead in and of itself. Well, no; perhaps worst-case is actually they find nothing but regardless no outcome puts him in a worse position than he is now. 

That done, he makes a show of returning to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson. 

She makes a fair amount of noise when welcoming him back, though he suspects she is one of the few who are actually genuine. It’s clear she doesn't quite believe him when he tells her about Moran (about John), she gives him a sad look and an even sadder _Oh, Sherlock_. She may not quite believe him, but there's a simmering hope in her eyes that says she can’t quite disbelieve him either. It's too tempting and he's been right too often in the past for her to disregard his word completely. 

.oO*Oo.

He lets Mycroft deal with the press, the fat snob owes him that at least. The headlines all end up being some variation of “Hatman Returns” (apparently a play on the name of some movie or other. Irrelevant, he deletes it) and, through the wonders of social media, Sherlock finds himself once again the darling child of the free press. 

He is England's prodigal son returned, they welcome him with open arms. 

.oO*Oo.

The thing about Moran, is that he’s an army man. Everything Sherlock has been able to find on him points to him being a fairly straightforward man; showmanship was always Moriarty’s bit and Moran just went along for the ride and provided a steady hand to hold the gun. 

Very little comes back to Sherlock through his sources. Even less from Mycroft, though he has a sneaking suspicion that even if Mycroft did have something to pass along he wouldn’t if he thought it could lead to Sherlock endangering himself over a dead man (not dead, John isn’t dead, Mycroft just thinks he is but he _isn’t_ ). 

The thought just makes him more determined to do this without Mycroft’s help. 

.oO*Oo.

The thing about Moran is that he was never a criminal mastermind. He can strategize on a small scale brilliantly. He can plan a hit and intimidate a henchman with ease, but he is not a businessman. He does not have the necessary skill set to gather the tattered threads of Moriarty’s web and weave them into something usable once more. 

He tries though. Poorly, but he does try. 

It leaves trails all over the place. Almost too many to follow. Perhaps that was Moran’s intention? Perhaps he's smart enough to know that he can't outsmart Sherlock forever and so rather than risking him finding the one thread that will lead him right to Moran, the ex-colonel has intentionally left a smattering of decoy threads? Regardless, Sherlock follows each trail to it's inevitable end. 

He gets nowhere. 

(He finds nothing.)

.oO*Oo.

At first Lestrade tries to be the Voice Of Reason but eventually realizes Sherlock won't listen to him. He falls into the place he has always inhabited in the past, supporting Sherlock regardless of how insane he might sound. Privately, Sherlock wonders if it's because Lestrade actually believes him or if it's because he assumes it will be easier to stop Sherlock from doing what he perceives to be the _really crazy stuff_ if Sherlock sees him as an ally. 

Sherlock thinks it's the latter. Lestrade is definitely of a _pick your battles_ mentality. 

Sally Donovan is more of the _pick every battle_ mentality. When she first sees him again, she looks prepared for a fight. Like she expects him to blame her for being the voice that planted the seed. She seems shocked when he doesn't. 

He doesn't tell her that he doesn't blame her for being the pawn she was turned into, for being manipulated. There is an intelligence to Sally (beneath her brashness and tendency to make snap judgments) but Sherlock himself had barely survived his encounter with Moriarty. He does not imagine Sally could ever have fared better.

Sherlock isn't entirely sure what to do with Anderson. The man appears to have suffered some kind of breakdown in his absence. Sherlock pats him awkwardly on the shoulder and waits for the man sobbing into his waist to stop. 

.oO*Oo.

It’s Anderson’s wife who brings him the video. She looks hesitant to hand the USB drive to him, hesitating several times before suddenly shoving it into his hand. She actually takes a step back once it's out of her hands. Sherlock closes his fingers around the drive but remains silent, not knowing what she's given to him. 

“Philip has obsessed over this since he got it. I don't know who gave it to him, I think it was one of those... Empty Hearse fans of his,” she tells him. 

“What is it?”

“John-”

Sherlock doesn’t wait to hear more than that. He turns on his heel and marches inside to his laptop. It's not until after he's got the drive plugged in that he realizes she's followed him up the stairs. He ignores her. She's far less important than the new information he's finally got his hands on. 

On the drive are several PDFs and several images that appear to be scanned copies of documents, more importantly though there is a video. 

He watches the video first. 

It's baffling. So many things about it that just... don't make sense. 

It's a handheld camera of some sort, likely a cell phone. John and Harry are just starting to walk into the water but it is thanks to the quality of the video that he is able to glean at least one more piece of information. They went in naked- yes that he already knew- but what he hadn't know was that they went in naked but not empty handed. They are each holding what appear to be a thin blanket of some sort.

He has no idea what to make of that information yet but he'll figure it out. 

They reach a certain point in the water. He thinks they're talking but he can't zoom the video in so he's not certain. 

Then they just... step into the tide. They slip under the water and are just... gone. 

He watches the rest of the video but nothing happens. They don't come back up. After several minutes some of the seals on the beach get into the water. Several more minutes and seals come out of the water with fish.

The video isn't completely useless but it's a near thing. 

Sherlock watches it through one more time, just to be sure, but at a glance there's nothing more to be gleaned from it. 

The blankets. 

Those are significant though he can't find the exact meaning of them. 

Security blanket? 

John had had a skin of some sort. He had panicked when he caught Sherlock with it. John does not panic, not over something as trivial as Sherlock touching his things. At the time, he'd believed John's explanation of _it was my mother's_ and _she died and left it to me_ and _it's all I have left of her_. Sherlock had been able to read the signs of a bad day at the clinic on him. A little boy badly beaten by his mother had brought up memories (and a longing for) John's own mother which had explained the uncharacteristic outburst. 

Like a fool, Sherlock had bought the explanation. 

But now, to see that Harry had one too. 

Well, perhaps the video hadn't been so useless after all. 

It gives him a new lead at least.

Clara. 

.oO*Oo.  
_  
Moira is a proud woman but she can recognise when she's beaten. She's proud but not so proud she can't lower herself to begging when it is the only option left to her._

_“Please, Hamish. Please, let me go. I'll come back, I promise. I need to go. Please,” she kneels before him as he sits in his chair. She clutches his trousers, his jumper, his hands. “Please,” she sobs._

_“Don't you love me?” he asks her. “What of John and Harriet? I love you. They love you. Would you abandon us?”_

_“Please,” she whimpers._

_“I can't do that, Moira,” he tells her. “I destroyed the Skin years ago.”_

_She breaks. She falls to the floor and wraps her arms around herself. A high pitched keen fills the room and Hamish reaches a hand down to soothe her hair from her face._

_She jerks away from him. “Don't touch me,” she snarls._  
  
.oO*Oo.

The thing about Moran is that he's not a idiot. He knows he can't match up to Holmes and, honestly, doesn't care enough to try. He drops the drive off with the obsessed leader of the group of Holmes’ fans. The idiot won't understand the letter attached, encrypted as it is, but Holmes will figure it out.  
__  
Holmes -

_I don't have Watson and I had nothing to do with his death. Here's the deal: you leave me alone and I'll leave you alone._

_I'm giving you the information on this drive as a sort of in-good-faith present. It was buried pretty deeply._

_-Moran_

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's interested, I do have a tumblr [[here]](http://janecshannon.tumblr.com/) as well :)


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